


Tabula Rasa

by CherryIce



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-27
Updated: 2007-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryIce/pseuds/CherryIce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short post-<i>The Sound of Drums</i> creepiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tabula Rasa

The Doctor's breath is thin in his chest, the beats of his hearts sounding thump-a-thump, thump-a-thump, blood carrying it through his body, an inescapable, inexorable rhythm. He's almost forgotten the physical weight of age: the pressure on his lungs, creak of his joints, palsy of his hands.

The sky is dark with the fall of the bogeymen of his childhood.

The Master crouches down beside him, smile brilliant and implacable and so very, very insane. The press of his mind is familiar (comforting only in that it is a contact, a connection, the Doctor has not had since everything ended in fire and never was). The Master's breath is warm against his neck, the paper-thin skin there, and the Doctor can smell him, all human suits, cologne that doesn't cover the fact that he smells of older things, darker things, than mammalian hormones.

Mouth scant centimetres from his ear, the Master's voice is conversational. Jovial. "Torchwood has these fabulous little pills," he says. Lips almost brush his skin. "Call them 'retcon.' You can do anything you'd like, and they won't remember it in the morning. Little subtle for my tastes, but they have their place." He pulls back a little, space between them, and the Doctor turns his face toward him. The Master is looking past him, curl of his lips almost nostalgic. Jack is twisting against the grip of the guards, and as he wrenches one arm free, a rifle butt is driven into his stomach and he falls.

"His own recipe," the Master says. Drops a hand to the lapel of the Doctor's ill-fitting coat. Runs his fingers along the edge. "Do you have any idea of the things that man can do with his mouth?" The Master's mind presses against his, all sharp corners and impossible angles and lewd images. The TARDIS is still screaming in the back of his brain, and he can almost feel the entire human race reaching out in panic.

The hand on his shoulder moves, long, cool fingers skittering up his neck, across his cheek. The Master leans in close again, cheek to cheek, mouth to his ear. "How much would it take, do you think," the Master says, low, "until you forgot everything but me?"


End file.
